


don't think you will forgive you

by buries



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Closure, Coda, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:59:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buries/pseuds/buries
Summary: we’ve made our mistakes, but we’re growing from it. no more doing it on our own, okay? or the one where raven and bellamy talk after alie. 3x11 coda.





	

**Author's Note:**

> so, i got bored and remembered i wanted to write a coda/missing scene of closure for 3x11. 
> 
> title from lily wood & the prick and robin schulz' _prayer in the c_. unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. thanks for reading. ♥

Raven feels like they’ve cut her head off.

There’s a pounding in her skull. At the front, back, sides, even underneath her chin. There’s a pain in her heart where a hand has reached inside of her chest and squeezed so tight something within her had shattered.

Given what she knows of a tale of a woman who’s eyes had been an undeniably powerful weapon, Raven finds her tongue has turned parts of her friends to stone.

She doesn’t stay on the bed in Niylah’s little hole in the wall for long. She’s on her feet, leaning against Octavia, and when she lets her gaze sweep up toward the chair with the bullseye on it, she only sees her target’s back.

The Guard jacket looks good on Bellamy, but she knows it doesn’t feel right for him. It blends too much into the darkness, and he’s always been a beacon, like one of those lights leading people back to where they need to be to feel safe.

She doesn’t realise she’s staring at the space he’d occupied until Clarke steps in front of her, expression pinched in soft sympathy and ownership for what’s happened to her. Raven wants to spit in her face, take another bite out of her skin, if only to see Clarke return to herself again. The woman standing before her looks familiar, but her hair’s a mess, her shoulders hunched, her eyes lacking a fire in them that had once made Raven both jealous and inspired.

“I’m fine,” she says a little too roughly. Octavia’s arm’s still underneath her own, and Raven’s legs still feel wobbly. Settling her weight on her feet properly, she gives herself a moment, inhales deeply, lets the air fill her lungs and herself become somewhat whole again. Calmer, she repeats, “I’m fine.” 

She looks to Octavia and sees her reluctance, but her eyes don’t dart to Clarke. They don’t dart to where he’d one stood, either. Raven finds it strange, but she knows better than to dwell on it for now. Beacons can be bursting with light, but it’s up to the lost soul to follow its light and for it to never give up and douse itself. 

Octavia’s hand remains on her side, fingers almost gripping her like a vice. It’s as though this Octavia’s afraid the darkness surrounding them will have her slip away, too.

Her grip eventually loosens, and Raven has to wonder if Octavia had been this reluctant to let Bellamy go.

It’s a bit of a struggle, learning to walk again. Her leg’s painful, sparking hot bursts of small explosions against her hip and behind her knee. But Raven pushes on. Leaning against the back of chairs, tables, the wall — she cares very little for how it may appear to anyone who watches her as she makes her way out of the Grounder’s cave and into the dark night sky.

All that matters is that it’s _her_ who’s walking. It’s _her_ who’s in control. It doesn’t matter her pieces are broken and in dire need of repair. 

It’s then she finds she can finally breathe.

The stars twinkle above her, some covered by the thick canopy hiding Niylah’s home from sight. She peers up at it, but doesn’t smile. There’s something that sits unkindly in her chest, a heavy weight of betrayal as she peers up at the stars and wonders why they look down upon her now when they’d turned a blind eye upon her before.

His feet are heavy against the ground. She looks away from the stars to the dying ember of Bellamy sheathed in shadow. His back’s still broad, his body still tall; he’s not looking up at the stars, but down at the ground. She wonders if he’s looking for that dog that guards what lays beneath their very feet.

She watches him for a moment before she takes a step — one that’s painfully loud, despite the earth being soft and lacking twigs to snap beneath her boots — and stops, inhaling long and deep to control the sharpness of her breath as pain snaps her leg into place.

“Hey,” she says, and it sounds croaky. Her throat’s on fire, much like her leg, but she builds a brace for it as she tries to soften her voice while making it as loud as any roar.

Bellamy turns and looks at her, and she finds she can’t quite read him. “Hey.”

She takes a step toward him and doesn’t hide her wince when she places too much weight on her left leg. He takes a step forward, and she thinks that to be a kindness she doesn’t deserve.

Once she’s closer, and more winded than she should be, she looks up at him and doesn’t let herself focus on anything else. The night air’s nice on her skin. The stars are out tonight, and they look as pretty as she remembers them being. But she knows Bellamy doesn’t want to hear about that right now.

Her vision blurs for a moment, heat swelling in her chest, and when she finds her throat constrict beneath the powerful weight of fingers wrapping around it, she finds it’s her own, not a woman who’s taken her over. Pulling her shoulders back, she lets them hunch, and knows her words will no longer try and turn him to stone. “I’m sorry for what I said. I never should’ve said any of that.”

His face remains painfully neutral. “It wasn’t you.”

“But it was.” He looks down and swallows, and she keeps her gaze settled on him. He’d looked away before, kept his jaw set, his hands clasped in his lap. She’d read it as his own defenses being built to keep her out, wanting to turn her to stone by not rising to her bait. “Those weren’t my words, but it was my voice. And it was something you told me.”

“She said it,” he says, voice rough. His words are quick but passionless. She knows not to take offense to how tired he’s finally showing himself to be; if anything, she takes solace in him letting a wall or two tumble down. “Not you.”

“I should’ve stopped her.” She balls her hands into fists, feeling her blunt nails almost grow into long, sharp talons. “I _could’ve_ —”

He looks up at her, pinning her with a stare she finds is both soft and sharp. He doesn’t blink. “I forgive you,” he says.

Unlike him, she doesn’t accept that.

She shakes her head, and says more quietly, “I don’t think you killed your mom.”

Bellamy doesn’t respond.

She takes a step forward and lifts her hand, hesitating before she touches his elbow lightly. His jacket’s damp and coarse, but she finds it warm nonetheless. “I kind of wish you’d say something back and make us even.” It’s meant to be a joke, but it falls like a heavy stone between them. Her smile begins but falls away. The upward curve to their mouths doesn’t quite fit on either of them tonight. “Look, Bellamy —”

“It’s okay, Raven.” He looks up at her, then shrugs his shoulders. “I did those things, and I deserve to be reminded of them.”

Looking at him hard, her brows furrow. “Not by me. And not by you.” She takes a step forward, looking up at him with her eyes narrowed. It almost feels familiar to push herself into his space uninvited, though she lacks a knife in her hand. 

She finds the blade in her words, though. The edge is blunter than it’d previously been, wielded by a woman in red.

“They call you a hero around camp for what you did in Mount Weather.” He looks away from her, and takes a step back. Her fingers grip the fabric of his jacket fiercely. She takes a step into him, looking up at him in an attempt to catch his runaway gaze. “That’s what I think you are. For the record.”

It takes a long time for him to even look at her, but she waits for him, gaze unwavering and her grip on his arm unbreakable. She doesn’t realise her fingers have wrapped around his elbow, thumb pressing into the cave of where it bends.

“You have to face it,” she says.

His gaze remains on the ground, but she watches as it shifts toward where she’s holding his arm. Hers soon follows, and she finds herself startled, but doesn’t pull her hand away. If anything, she grips harder.

“Build a brace, and be stronger.”

He looks up at her, and she lifts a shoulder. “Just you and me,” she says, feeling the faint taste of acid on her tongue. She lets her gaze go unfocused as she returns to that room, to that time in that space where she’d tried to bite the heads of her friends right off. 

“We’ve made our mistakes, but we’re growing from it.” She looks up at him, gaze soft. He’s looking at her unwaveringly. “No more doing it on our own, okay?”

It takes him a moment, but he gives her a small nod. 

She gives him a small smile and finds it lingers. His mirrors hers, and she likes that she can see it even in the dark of night. 

Letting her hand fall away from his arm, she looks up at the stars and feels herself almost snap back to whom she’d been before. But there’s lingering red in her peripherals, and she knows, at least now, Bellamy doesn’t look at her and see that shade coating her lips.

“I never want to be some computer program’s headless snake woman ever again.”

He cracks a small smile. “Medusa.”

She arches a brow, her smile as small as his. But it warms her as though she’s standing in front of a fire, and she suspects it does the same for him. “That lady.” Inhaling deeply, she peers up at the stars, and knows he copies, though his gaze settles on her. “Can we sit out here for a bit?”

She doesn’t see him nod his head, but she knows. There’s a light press of his hand against the small of her back, and she leans into him, letting him bear the weight of her left side as they move toward a thick wall to sit upon.


End file.
